After Breaking Dawn3
by letmesign172
Summary: After the elimination of the Volturi coven, the Cullens have taken over as patriarchs of the vampire world. However, faced by unimaginable challenges and the arrival of a mysterious group of young immortals, they may begin to regret their new position of power. Sequel to After Breaking Dawn2.
1. Preface

_**To the tune of: **_**Bela Lugosi **_**by the Town Monster.**_

It would end tonight.

Too long had I tolerated the gruesome, maniacal abuse. I knew exactly where to take him—I knew exactly to whom I could turn. And they would be more than willing to take him off my hands, I was sure. Drew would hate me for it, forever. He would never speak to me again, not I was about to intentionally put all of us in danger… Not after he will have learned that I decided to play God.

But I had to end it. Or else Jeremy would continue to murder the rest of those that I loved.

The authorities would come looking for him in the first few hours…and probably, after they calculated all the suspects, they'd be after me, as well, but they were the least of my worries. I began to wonder why it was he didn't break out of prison—he was more than capable.

Unless there was something that he wasn't telling us. Or that Drew wasn't telling me.

I had considered on more than one occasion that the government must've known about us. It would explain why we had gotten away with so much…and why some of us _hadn't_ gotten away with certain things. It would explain why they sent a helicopter for Jeremy when they could have quite simply sent a cruiser instead…

Why he hadn't escaped yet. That was the biggest question that was permanently up in the air.

If he were in a _normal_ prison, he would have flicked a hole in the concrete wall, kicked the iron bars off the garden level window, gnawed through the lock on the door. He would have cracked the skull of every ignorant human within a thirty foot radius of him, guard and prisoner alike.

But he hadn't. Not as far as we knew. And, if he had, Drew hadn't told us yet.

The only answer was that he was most certainly not in _normal_ prison. He must've been detained in more solid quarters, ones that were not so easily broken out of, not so easily penetrated.

Drew had mistakenly mentioned where I could find him—yet I could have sworn that he looked right at me when he let it slip, as if he found it appropriate that I know and go to kill him….

But, no, I wouldn't be the one to kill Jeremy.

That would not be a fair exchange.

I had been there with him, in the yellowish darkness of the motel room, sat with my knees to my chest, in which was the loud _thump_ing of my living, beating heart. I breathed in the stifling, musty air, listening as the rusty springs of the bed screeched as the moldy mattress moved on top of it, clenching my eyes shut in fear that I would never be able to relinquish ownership of such a memory after it was seared so violently into my brain. Just three and a half hours earlier, I had been invited to a party of Jeremy Lane's, a kid about whom all I knew was that he had been emancipated from his parents and lived in that big house over on Caraway Street…. And, between the time I arrived at that doorstep to that fateful hour at the lodge, Jeremy had decided that his own party had gotten too out of control and suddenly wanted to leave; he took Drew, Thomas, and I in his SUV to a rank bar downtown where cranky forty-year-old men spent most of their time and money; I had invited Ashley to meet me there and I lost my virginity to her in the men's bathroom; someone picked a fight with Thomas in the parking lot and Jeremy chewed at the man's neck until his head was no longer attached to the rest of his body; Jeremy admitted that he was not human, and, after that point, I chose not to remember the rest.

But, the aftermath of those later events have haunted me since the moment that they first occurred.

Drew and Thomas were bitten and left for dead behind the motel, Jeremy raped and mutilated Ashley as I watched helplessly with no more than a pocketknife as defense, and I had no choice but to wait for my turn.

Jeremy had lifted himself off of Ashley's remains, only his silhouette visible to me with the minimal light, and glided off the bed and—it was so dark—perhaps he had even decided to hide underneath it for a little while. He listened to my sobs until the smell of hardening blood was too much for him to stand and he clumsily crawled back to the mattress, cleaning off her limbs until she was nothing but spotless skin, bone, and fat. And, then, he decided, since he had made and killed the only friends he had in one night, that he should not kill me, but change me, instead…

And that was why this cruelty had to end. He had not killed me, but it was as if he had. Drew, despite Jeremy's clear position of control that night, had become a leader among us and had instructed that I not seek revenge. We had all moved away together after Jeremy's reinforcements killed our families so that we had no reason to stay and we found a small town house in a city a hundred miles away. Our coven was formed. Jeremy dropped his persona as a rich, emancipated teenager and decided that a gang was a more suitable image for us to uphold. Four more were added to our numbers and one was lost to an enemy coven. I had killed a total of thirty-seven people. And Jeremy was arrested for eighty-three accounts of murder, forty-six accounts of rape, eleven accounts of robbery, nine accounts of arson, and, though it seems inappropriate for me to include such a thing among a formidable list, one speeding ticket.

And, now, as I neared the place where he was being held, the only thing keeping me sane was the reiteration of my plan in my head: I would help Jeremy escape, I would take him to Italy, and I would watch the Volturi kill him. Simple as that.

Yes, this would be a fair exchange for all that he had done to me. A truly fair and fitting exchange.

* * *

It was a struggle to get Jeremy into Volterra quietly. Considering he was stronger than me, tenfold. But I had planned ahead for such resistance and had been able to saw off his left arm and right foot with my teeth (not an easy feat, in itself), so that clawing or escaping would be a difficult task for him. I carried his limbs in a sack on my back and dragged him through the sewers of the old city—I found it difficult to believe that the police would not confront me if I was caught dragging a partly dismembered vampire through the civil streets. The only way to keep him quiet was physical pain; although, the more I tortured him, the more tempting it was to put a flame to him and end it myself.

But I knew that I could not do that. I did not want to be a murderer…

…Though it may have been too late to sustain such a desire.

Aro would finish the job for me. Cleanly and inconspicuously.

I had heard of this Italian coven only once. Jeremy knew them through his sister, Louise, whom he had not seen for several decades until just a few months ago. Last we all had seen of her, she had gained an indispensible role among the Volturi's numbers, what with her mysterious gift. I never fully grasped the entirety of it—which Drew and I later discovered was Jeremy's doing; he did not want us to take a liking to his sister, to have any longing to adopt her to our own coven. He wanted no ties with her.

I imagined her reaction that would take place only a few minutes from that very moment. When I would drag her demented, broken brother in and hand him over to be killed. Would she be terrified? Infuriated? From past evidence, I could only picture her indifference, her hardheartedness. Once any wrongdoer was dragged into the Volturi's the court, it did not matter the relation—Jeremy would be just as deserving and rewarded as the rest.

"I'll kill you, you bastard!" Jeremy screeched, his voice hoarse and wild.

I glanced back at him and, with one quick movement, I lifted him from the ground, gripped both hands around his ankle, and _slam_med him into the cobblestone wall of the sewer, sending a detrimental crack down the façade. He groaned and hissed and then fell silent for a long moment.

"Don't worry, Lane," I comforted him contemptuously. "We're almost there. Not much longer yet."

"I'll kill you, Jack," he whispered, dropping his head so that it dragged across the puddled floor and bounced painfully over each depression and protrusion in the rock. I assumed then that he had accepted his consequences.

Ahead, I could see the aged, iron cast elevator. _Not much longer yet. Almost there_, I thought.

Jeremy salvaged some of his spirit once I shoved open the doors, rolling over onto his stomach and latching his fingers into the floor. He did not seem anguished, as I would have expected, but, instead, he concentrated all of his effort and faith on his strength, clenching his teeth and sealing his lips tight. I yanked him in vain towards the elevator—he was too much stronger than me for me to even dream of getting him upstairs on account of my own power. So, as an alternative, I released my hold on him and fell to the floor myself, lodging my teeth into his calf and tearing until his right leg was severed up to the knee. He yelled in agony and reflexively brought his hands to the site of injury. In the little time I had, I jumped to my feet and heaved him into the elevator.

He curled up against the wall much like a dying animal and I kept as much distance from him as I could in the small space. There was only a single functioning button on the wall and the plastic face cracked under the unintentional force of my fingertip. There was no denying that I was nervous; my plan did not extend very far beyond Jeremy's death. What would the Volturi do after the deed was done? Invite me to join them? Keep me captive just for the fun of it?

…Would they kill _me_?

I truly did not want to linger on the thought very long. Whatever happened, I reassured myself that saving my own skin was of top priority. And, even if I was taken hostage for whatever reason, Drew would come and rescue me. He had to.

I was startled by the spine-tingling trill of the elevator door as it screeched open to reveal a long, fire-lit corridor. _Not much longer yet. Just down this hall_.

Jeremy's inert body seemed to gain ten pounds with every step I took; by the time I reached the gargantuan wooden doors, he must've weighed a ton. There was complete silence all around me, but I could almost feel their presence in the air—they must've been waiting, they must've known I was coming. Louise would have told them. I was met by the silence of their anticipation, of their curiosity. Some thirty of the most dangerous creatures known to this planet were only a few steps away…

They would be the answer to my dilemma. They were the resolution.

Jeremy had stopped breathing, closing off all access air had to his lungs by bringing his hand to his face. His eyes narrowed at the ceiling, as if he were hopelessly confused by something…

He was listening for them.

I took a deep breath, ignoring him as he scowled at me for interrupting the silence which he was attempting to analyze, and pushed open the creaking old doors…

My hands grew stiff as I released Jeremy from my grasp, flinching at the sound of his legs falling to the floor with a _bang_. I took a few clumsy steps forward, my footsteps loud and graceless on the glossy marble floor. My shoulders slouched, and I let the sack of Jeremy's limbs drag behind me until I finally had no more strength—not even in my fingers—and let it slump in a heap behind me as I continued forward to the three grand thrones at the end of the room. My eyes scanned every inch of the room, examining the walls with such scrutiny that it was almost as if I expected to see something of use to me etched into them; I followed the dusty beams of light to an undeterminable source; and, finally, once I reached the step that differentiated the three most powerful vampires from those below them, I felt a falling sensation rush from my jaw through to my shoulders, down through my torso and, at last, the bottom of my feet. At last, I fell to my knees.

"My God," I mumbled under my breath, my tonality shaky and unrecognizable. "Oh, my God. Oh"—the word was long and drawn out—"no, no, God, no..." I brought my forehead to the cold floor, attempting to control the clammy sweat that broke out along the nape of my neck and my brow.

I brought my head up and examined the invisible faces that I imagined to be there, my eyes lingering on each throne that sat…empty…before me. My exasperated sigh was amplified around the vacant room, bouncing from wall to wall until the sound returned back to me—and I had to sigh again when I heard it…out of terror and dread.

"What am I going to do?" I whispered quietly, bringing my hands to my face. The expectation of an answer that I knew would not come possessed me…and I had never felt more alone in my entire life.

My ears caught subtle, almost inaudible scratching sound on the floor behind me, followed by the squeak of something rubbing across the stone floor. I lifted my head from my hands and peeked over my shoulder, surprised to find Jeremy directly behind me, clawing for my legs as I reflexively jumped up onto the throne. My paranoia suddenly became unfathomably overwhelming and I found myself screaming as the middle throne that I had leaped onto fall back. The thunderous _crash_ of the wood hitting the floor seemed to echo so ominously it were as if just touching this sacred object released a curse into the air.

"I'm going to kill you!" Jeremy roared, clasping my foot and pulling me down to his level.

I frantically grabbed him by the head, tugging and tugging until a small crack began to span the length of his jaw. In sudden panic, he released me and I darted for the door.

"I'll kill you, you little wretch!"

My graceful, cold fingers atypically fumbled on the latch at the door. When I felt his hands on my calves, I pushed and shoved so that the massive gate splintered and collapsed. The elevator was in my sights, I was almost safely away, but, even with his limbs strapped to my back, he caught up. His jagged teeth lodged into my ankle and my knees buckled at the sensation of pain rocketing through my body. As he began to gnaw away at my right leg, I tried desperately to review my mistakes: where on earth had I gone wrong!? In my moment of cold, schizophrenic terror, I remembered that it was not of my own doing that my flawless plan had failed.

The Volturi were gone. And I would never discover where it was they had gone to.


	2. Chapter 1

**To the tune of: England by The National.**

Edward's POV

There seemed no better way to untangle my complicated web of thoughts—both my own and others'—than to sit at the grand piano and rid myself of the haunting premonitions that even Alice, the most verbose girl ever to walk this very earth, refused to voice.

And the release was immediate. Simply the feeling of the velvet bench underneath me and the sight of the sunlight on a magnificently clear day reflecting off of my hard skin onto the ivory keys was enough.

I needn't make a sound, I needn't a note. All I needed was to contemplate. All I needed was to imagine the harmonious flow of the perfect melody, supported by an evocative series of chords and enriched by the gentle application of the pedals—the crescendo, the decrescendo, a _ritard_ at the bridge and later at the conclusion, a major key to start, a minor key to carry the weight, and a powerful back-and-forth between the two. I could sit for hours, mapping a piece on a grand canvas and designing a set of characters in my mind that would waltz to the rise and fall of my musical template, and, all the while, I would not even have to lift a finger. And, after the map left its start and ultimately found its finish, only _then_, I would lift my hands ever so slowly, rest my fingertips in the starting position, and begin to play.

The notes would flow out of me—never rushed, always fluent—and I would execute a piece precisely as it had sounded in my mind, or, perhaps, I would build upon it as I went. Break it down, build it up, add to my canvas a new landscape that had not been included before, change a landscape so that it were darker, or brighter, or louder, or milder: perhaps, a forest at dusk, trees looming high as if leaving the fog and the mist in search of the light of heaven above; or, maybe, a pier jutting naturally out of a quiet cove at sunset, the sound of the breeze just barely teasing the waters and a few birds beyond gracefully flying about one another as if playing a game; or, if I desire, a hillside town ablaze with gorgeous colors and people, sensational music echoing from storefronts…or, better yet, a live band at the square, supplying the perfect rhythm for handsome aging couples and fiery young spirits to dance! oh, to imagine such a thing!; or, even better, a calm afternoon on a sailboat with my darling wife, a soft breeze and a cool temperature, all set on the background of a glassy sea and a blissful sky, clouds the color of cream and the sun as bright as could be.

Yes, I could illustrate all these things as I pleased, without hesitation or mistake, and, then, before I knew it, I would have a picture that, if tangible, would be fifty feet long and take up all the walls in a room. But I needn't walls, only paper. Instead of fifty feet, all I would need were a few pages that I could easily stuff between Carlisle's edition of _the Iliad_ and his collection of Dostoevsky, a few pages that I could easily shove underneath the sofa cushion where they could only be stumbled upon accidentally, a few pages that I could easily give to my daughter to hide so that not even I, their creator, could find them.

Yes, I could do all these things, but, somehow, that seemed criminally wrong. Hidden in a bookshelf was no place for a forest or a cove, nor were the cushions a place for a hillside town or a sailboat. I supposed that was why I believed that the safest place for all these things was in my mind and in my mind alone. Nowhere else was suitable. And one could even argue that my corrupted, cynical mind was no place for such beautiful imaginings either. One could argue that these arms were not the safest place for my beautiful Bella or my darling baby girl, or that this body, this life, was not the place to keep a young, ill, abandoned boy for all of eternity. One could argue that _that_ was also criminally wrong.

But I had managed. As an animal adapts once threatened, as a king casts aside his pragmatism and adopts new experimental ideologies, as a man trusts that his decisions are in complete consideration of his family, I had managed.

Somehow I was able to accept all this as solid truth when I sat at these keys, when I designed my blank canvas; it was this place that seemed to provide me with that unquestionable sense of clarity. Why was it that my faults and my shortcomings were more acceptable, or my temptations appeared all the more benign, when I was in this sanctuary, I could wonder. Was it that I was in the presence of an intangible force, a power that I could wield? I doubted that—very highly, in fact. The reason was easily identifiable, even outside the comforts of my haven.

It was here that I was alone. Here, I was allowed to sit with my thoughts without the interference of another mind. There was no identifiable barrier between me and everyone else, no wall that temporarily disabled my abilities, but, instead, I was allowed that invaluable gift of distraction. Here, I could pretend to lounge in the daylight on a crowded European street and admire the scenery, tobring myself to tears at the memories of life lost and love found and life made, to look in the mirror and find a blemish that had appeared overnight, to come home after a day of work and make love to my wife and afterward complain to her about the petty things in life. I could pretend to feel a sort of happiness almost_ criminal_! Imagine!

My thoughts were so terribly intertwined that I knew I would have to conjure my imaginings for a long while today. Perhaps, I would even be fortunate enough to sit here into tomorrow. Esme would not come in until I started to play, but she would have taken notice that I took my seat and the last thoughts that I was often privy to before I began my designs were hers: _oh, it's been so long since Edward last played! A few hours now and the house will be just as I like it—full of light and sound. _Carlisle would acknowledge the music almost appreciatively, as he often did, because it provided him the perfect milieu for his work. My siblings would take notice as someone would take notice to a minor one degree shift in the thermostat—hardly, if at all; they'd become so accustomed to it that it was as a natural as the air that we'd the decision to breathe.

As for my wife, Bella would come and lie on the pale blue, button-tufted settee a couple feet away and gaze out at the treetops—and, although she probably did not realize it, she would act as the impeccable model for my portrait; the compositions ended up all the more precious when she was in the room with me. Often, she would not even noticeably concede that my presence in the room had inspired her to enter; it would be as if she was alone, as I was alone. We would be alone together. And that, for me, was the loveliest, most indescribable feeling in the world.

I let my hands fall into my lap, finding where it felt best to begin, and, out of the corner of my eye, I just then noticed Renesmee gaiting in, walking so smoothly that it seemed the air carried her. In her hand was a manila pad of paper and an ink pen. She did not look up at me, but, instead, she moved to the chaise lounge without so much as a glance, as her mother would, and took her seat, bringing her knees up so that she would have an apt easel for her drawing board.

"Inspire me," she said.

And I obliged.

I decided that, rather than mapping my journey, I began at a walk and then a jog and finally a run. My hands met the keys and my eyes etched in my mind the image of my daughter before me. She wore a soft color pallet—a delicate white blouse, an ashen pair of grayish-blue denims, lightly colored blue socks—and her reddish hair cascaded faultlessly down the arm of the chair, individual wispy strands dancing in the air from the vent directly below. The bright green of the spring trees marvelously contrasted the pallid interior of the house, with which she seamlessly blended in; her pale hand slowly caressed the paper, the sound of her palm moving about the page consistent and easy. She held the pen loosely between her fingertips—I admired the fact that she illustrated her thoughts in ink, as if she had no regrets or reservations.

The entire piece progressed in pianissimo, so to match the soft qualities about her, only mounting to mezzo piano once or twice in order to additionally exemplify the surroundings of my subject. I utilized the damper pedal throughout, for the same reasons, and let my right hand do most of the work with the higher keys. The tempo was intentionally indefinite, rising and falling and slowing and flying when I saw fit.

By this time, Esme must have been in the listening intently in, but I noticed that she did not approach me, as I would have guessed. I allowed myself a peek out of my fortress and into her mind—and the captions of her soaring heart brought me a paternal satisfaction. Resurrected in me were the aspirations that I had been forced to cast away with my new life: my dreams of a family, of the contentment that could only be felt by someone, usually in their old age, at the recollection of his or her existence and accomplishments. Here before me was a misplaced dream finally realized. And no amount of foreboding could take it from me.

Alice's visions of danger fast approaching—ones that only she and I knew in complete detail—were suddenly something of a distant memory. It was as if these visions were events that had long since occurred in childhood and were now simply an unchangeable reminiscence. I needn't remember them, nor did I have the desire to. All that I truly wanted and needed was before me, no matter the consequences of coming happenings. Here, in my sanctuary, I was alone. Alone with my daughter. And what happened in the outside world was unworthy of our moment here.

I would find it in myself later that evening to go to Carlisle's study and find him waiting for me. And I knew what he would ask, what he would think. _Oh, what a tortured soul Edward is, _he would think. Are you going to tell me, he would ask, what it is that's the matter? What is it, he would ask of me, that has got Alice in such a knot? Not a knot, I would say, Alice is too deductive to be in a _knot_. And, somehow, I would be able to tell him of the unworthy things to come, of the visitors that would come to our doorstep in search of their friend whom they'd lost, almost on purpose. I would tell him of their misfortunes before they would have the opportunity—which, I had considered, would make the moment in which they would tell us of their misfortunes firsthand all the more painful.

I, however, would not tell Carlisle that their intentions were not solely to find their friend, but also to stop him from making a terrible mistake. I would not tell him that their purposes here would be of a darker sort than we would have preferred—not to go as far as to say that they are ill-intentioned or unwelcome in our home, but to go as far as to say that I would prefer that they not come at all.

One way or the other, though, I would have to tell him of Alice's qualms. As far as I knew, they were not of a personal nature for her, nor did they inspire in her an atypical sense of dread. The only reason Alice would keep a vision to herself would be that she intended to protect us or she did not consider it threatening. Yet this vision was neither of those. It was as if she was keeping it for the sake of having a secret—which, although I did not intend it as such, was a very difficult thing to do around me.

Their friend, I would tell Carlisle, has already made this terrible mistake.

Well, then, Carlisle would ask after a moment of reasoning, why are they coming the first place?

Because, I would answer him, they don't know he's already done it.

And, Carlisle would have to wonder, what is this mistake? Do you know?

And I would sit there for a long while and not be able to answer my father because this mistake was an honest one—vengeful and self-seeking, but honest, too. And I would not be able to tell him for the same reasons that Alice had not been able prior to this conversation that I had to have. We, my sister and I, felt obligated to this boy and, to us, this mistake was hardly a mistake at all.

Well, to _me_, it was hardly a mistake.

Because I had done it myself before.

If either of us told the story as our visitors would want us to, I would feel as if we'd betrayed him. Not solely because we did not believe it was a mistake, but because we knew that our family was the reason his mistake had been classifiable as a mistake in the first place. The reason his mistake had _failed_.

Our family was the reason that these ignorant visitors would come and the reason why we would have to tell them that their friend was probably dead.

I did not want to think that we had done someone harm, especially when their intentions were so honest. And I did not want to admit this to my father, or to anyone, for that matter. Not even Bella. I had once been angry, I had once been vengeful, as this boy was. And to say the fact that he had tried to kill someone else out of spite was dishonorable felt, to me, the same as calling myself, or my sister, or my brother, dishonorable. To betray this boy was to be a hypocrite. And I could not do that.

I did not want to have to find it in myself later that evening to go to Carlisle's study and find him waiting for me in the first place. If I could help it, I would stay here, in my sanctuary, with my daughter as my inspiration and me as hers, for as long as the means would allow. And I would stay here, unfailingly replaying my daughter's leitmotif until the sun had set a thousand times. So, knowing that I would be able to repeat it again, I let the refrain end, let it drift into a euphonious conclusion, and lifted my fingers from the ivory and my foot from the pedal so that I could hear the last note echo in the air with that impression of finality that I so enjoyed.

"Want to see?" Renesmee asked eagerly.

I scooted over and patted the bench beside me. "If it is a self-portrait," I told her, "then you interpreted my composition precisely."

She rose from her position and settled on the bench beside me, the pad pressed against her chest so that I could not catch a glimpse before she unveiled it.

"Close your eyes."

I did as she asked.

I heard her place the paper on the music stand where my arrangement would be if it had been written and, just as I was about to sneak a peek when I felt she wasn't looking, she instructed that I open my eyes.

It was a portrait, but not the one that I had anticipated.

Although I did not recall her looking at me even once, the drawing was a flawless picture of me, set at the piano, my eyes locked forward at the artist. My eyes looked quite tired, but there was a glint of deliberation and wonder there, a perfect depiction of the very admiration I felt for my daughter. The pen strokes were so meticulous you could have sworn that it was a snapshot; the folds of my shirt were incredibly realistic, there was a distinct gloss on the black piano top, and she even somehow captured the mysterious way the light was redirected off my skin onto the walls. Over my left shoulder and out the window, an evergreen tree was represented with such detail I could identify the individual branches that extended out past the periphery of the sketch.

On my right side, a couple feet away, there sat a rather large, russet-skinned boy, sitting against the wall with his eyes closed. His hair was greasy and haphazardly tossed about his head, falling ever so naturally in front of his closed eyelids. He had a look of complete bliss on his face, which was an odd sight—I had known him for quite some time now and to see him so perfectly preserved in a state of such serenity seemed an uncharacteristic yet welcomed change. Another intriguing aspect of the depiction of him was his complete unawareness that he was even being drawn; I had to commend my daughter as an artist for having captured the most sincere candid I had ever seen. All told, I recognized my friend in this drawing with a sense of appreciation, but mostly surprise, seeing that I had not even known he was in the room.

Curious as to whether my daughter had simply imagined him there, I turned and looked over my shoulder, and, surely enough, Jacob sat there on the floor in a position similar to that in the picture. However, now his eyes were open and he sported the telltale smirk that he often did.

He lifted his hand in a small, pithy wave. "Don't mind me."

"I hadn't," I joked and, then, to my daughter, "Could I keep this? I'll need it for when you become astoundingly famous. Although, I'm sure it won't be that _astounding_ to anyone."

"Of course." She took it from me for a moment and lightly penned her name in the lower right-hand corner. And then, handing it back, she shrugged, "For validity purposes."

I admired it, placing it back on the music stand.

"Alright, Jake," she giggled, "your turn." She stood from the piano and gestured grandly toward the spot on the piano bench where she had just been seated. "I expect perfection."

He stood and walked over, patting me on the shoulder fraternally once he stopped behind me. Then, leaning forward, he balled his hand into a fist and rolled his knuckles across the black keys, playing a simple melody that was, in all probability, taught to first graders in an elementary music class.

"There you go," he sneered once finished. "Perfection."

I gave him a standing ovation and began to applaud loudly.

He elbowed me. "Oh, shove it, Edward."

"Alright," I rolled my eyes, "fair enough. We can't _all_ be Vivaldi. I'll leave you two…to it."

"Actually," he sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets, "I'm here to talk to you."

I had been shutting the fall board, but I stopped myself to meet eyes with him. He did not disclose anything there that would tip Renesmee off, but there was definitely a trace of intuitional distress—I had seen an identical look in Alice's eyes a few nights ago, when I overheard her decision to keep her vision a secret.

Both of them shared that glint of resolution…and a need for confidentiality.

The only difference was that what Alice wanted hidden was not something she wanted even me to be aware of. But Jacob, on the other hand, evidently wanted to share his premonitions with someone—and his fleeting look of desperation alerted me that it wasn't just that he wanted to share them with someone, but with _anyone_.

"Car trouble," He chuckled, though there was hardly any humor there.

I smiled amiably. "Not a problem."

Renesmee was naturally intuitive and, had it not been for our levity, she may have even had the curiosity to think, _Jacob would not need help for car trouble. And, if anything, wouldn't Emmett be the wiser about that sort of thing? _But she didn't wonder, despite my suspicions.

"Then, I guess I'll leave you two…to it," she teased.

She used Jacob's shoulder as leverage to reach his lips and kissed him sweetly for a short moment before smiling at the two of us and leaving the room.

I admired her as she left, but my feeling of ease dissipated when I met my friend's worried eyes.

"You wanted to talk?"

He nodded toward the front door. "It's my carburetor. Here, I'll show you."


	3. Chapter 2

**To the tune of: Innocent Son by Fleet Foxes.**

Jacob's POV

Edward followed me down the front steps and to my car, where I hesitated for a moment to swallow the sickly taste of bile in my mouth and glance up at the Cullen's house. On the highest floor, in what I could tell was Alice's room by the blue-black curtains, Nessie looked down at us suspiciously. She wasn't stupid—I knew that better than anyone—and, sure, car trouble was probably one of the more thoughtless excuses among other choices, but she accepted it because she believed in secrets. Loved them even, enjoyed the thin lines and the mystery and the elaborate lengths at which heroes would go to keep them. And that's what I wanted: I wanted my Nessie to believe I was a hero, _her_ hero. And, far as I knew, fear was not included on a hero's resume. Fear was the stuff of cowards.

When my cautious eyes met hers, her pursed lips curved into a full, marvelous—and quite possibly forced—smile, and I gave her a smile back, although mine probably wasn't nearly as convincing. I had to look away and turn to Edward, trying to pretend that he had said something, and he nodded at me, as if signaling me in a secret code that, yes, he had noticed Renesmee, too, and, yes, she would watch us until she decided it really was nothing.

"The carburetor, you said?" Edward opened the driver's side door of my Rabbit and pulled the hatch.

"That's right," I nodded, lifting the hood and hovering over the engine. "I think the choke is jammed, or the float chamber got pinched."

He came to my side, pretending to fiddle with filter. "I think it's the throttle valve that's your problem. VW carburetors have a different jet than my Volvo, or Emmett's Chrysler model in his Jeep, for that matter…" He continued to ramble so that Renesmee would lose interest.

_I was on patrol last night, _I thought, standing up straight and wiping my hands on my jeans, acting as if I was actually listening to him, _and, you know, it's been quiet the past couple weeks so I told Sam I'd be fine going alone. And a bunch of us had school the next morning, so he agreed that the kid with the least academic future should go._ Edward gave me a look. I ignored him._ I went down as far as Taholah and was heading back when I found this…thing._

Edward eyebrows furrowed. "What sort of noise did you say the engine was making?" 

_I don't know what it was, man. Like a vampire campground or something. Temporary, thank God, but it was crazy!_

"Really, hmm," he nodded.

_There were about fifteen of them, I think. All real young, some even younger than me, younger than Seth, _I shook my head. _But they didn't look too scary—I mean, I know that when I say a bunch of camping vampires, you think, like, a blood barbeque or something…_

His eyes narrowed at me and he smiled.

_Not that I think _you_ guys have a blood barbeque when you go camping._

"So a bunch of weird noises, huh?" He stood up and folded his arms. "What do you suppose we should about it?"

"Nothing until it becomes a real problem, I guess," I shrugged.

"And you said it wasn't too scary?"

_They seemed pretty innocent to me,_ I told him. _Honestly, they looked like they were grieving the death of some wayward son, or something. They were sitting around talking about how disappointed they were with life and rolling joints—do vampires even smoke? Anyway, it looked like a whole lot of nothing, if you ask me. But it was just crazy! That's all I can think to describe it!_

Edward looked at the ground, thinking for a long moment.

"Anyway, I just thought you should know," I said. "Thought you could help me out."

"Right," He nodded.

Almost at the same time, we both tilted our heads to see if Renesmee was still there and, when we saw that she wasn't, we searched the other windows to see if she was still watching.

"Gone," I said.

"I've some issues of my own," Edward sighed, looking earnestly into my eyes, keeping up our pretense just in case. "Follow me to the garage?"

I agreed with a glance.

Edward quickly dug his keys from his pocket and climbed into his father's Mercedes, which seemed a golden chariot beside my own ride. He was out of the driveway in a flash, idling on the street, waiting for me to follow. I slammed the hood shut, moved around the car to the driver's side, and glanced up at the house one last time as I, having chosen to pretend that I didn't notice Renesmee watching from the front door, ducked into the front seat and turned the keys in the ignition. Crackling speakers blaring, I followed Edward off into the forest, leaving the house behind.

The Cullen garage was not even a quarter mile away, but Edward passed the turnoff and continued forward in the direction of Forks, picking up speed as he went. Most people knew when a Cullen was coming into town—I didn't doubt you could hear the engine from a mile off—so the streets were humorously clear when Edward whipped through town in seconds flat. My car struggled to follow for a moment, groaning and screeching in protest, but I pushed the pedal and hugged the curves so that, although I did not match the speed of the Mercedes, I was able to match the acceleration so that it almost seemed as if Edward and I were involved in a high-speed chase.

We took the left off Route 101 toward La Push and Edward led the way through the evergreens to my house. He slowed as we neared, so not to destroy our muddied driveway by tearing through the gravel, and pulled onto the bumpy causeway and over to the house. He parked out front, whereas I parked in the garage, but he was leaning against the tool chest by the time I had turned off my car.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, how I am hoping and praying the two are unrelated."

"Two?" I rose from my seat and slammed the door, the entire vehicle shuddering precariously. "What part of your inner monologue did I miss?"

"We've been expecting a coven from California for the past few weeks, you knew that, but Alice knows what they're looking for and we can be almost positive that they know we don't have it." He paused. "Tell me, what did they look like?"

"Some bleached blondes, bunch of guys with stubble. If we're waiting for the California stereotype, these bloodsuckers fit the bill." I shrugged, shaking my head. "But how could a bunch of vampires live on the beach? Wouldn't _some_one notice?"

"I highly doubt they take sunset strolls along Venice Beach, Jacob," Edward rubbed his chin. "Keep in mind, primal instinct is to keep a strictly nocturnal lifestyle." He took a moment to think. "Coming up here, moving only at night—it is more trouble than it's worth. Not to mention they're scared. I can assure you they're not coming just chat."

I scoffed.

He threw me an admonishing look. "What's funny?"

"We seem to be worth the trouble for a lot of people."

"Unfortunately." He moved over to the patched up armchair in the corner, collapsing into it with a weary sigh. His nose flinched at the smell the flumed around him in a dust cloud, but he politely said nothing of it.

There was something off about Edward today, though I couldn't put my finger on it. He was on edge, more so than usual, and—although I should have known better than to yank him out of his safe haven so suddenly—the only reason Edward would be seeking shelter behind that piano of his would be to hide from the truths that lurked beyond the farthest his intuition could get him; he'd hit a glass ceiling, and he didn't like the inevitable that he could see stalking ahead. There was more that he wasn't telling me. And worse, there was more that he wasn't telling his family, that he wasn't telling Bella.

That alone was a red flag. We were dealing with something serious.

"What are they coming for, anyway?"

"Their friend. A boy named Jack Reed. Went missing five weeks ago."

I folded my arms. "So, what? Their friend went AWOL. Big deal. What do they expect us to do about it?"

Edward, suddenly a closed book, locked eyes with the rim of my rear tire. "We got that boy killed."

"What do you mean, man? We've been dormant for months. Haven't touched a soul since the battle. This kid disappeared almost half a year after we buried the hatchet with the Volturi…"

Something I said piqued him and he shot up from the chair.

He swung his arm back in frustration, an innocent oil can in the collision path—but, centimeters before making contact and sending the rusted metal flying through the rotted paneled doors, he gripped his intended battering ram into a fist and brought it to his forehead. His eyes clenched shut, hard.

_What am I missing, Edward? _

"This boy is not the enemy!"

"I never said he was!" I put up my hands defensively. "Cool yourself, man! Why so cagey all of a sudden?"

"You don't understand, Jacob," Edward said pleadingly. "I don't think you can. You can't think badly of him—he only thought to do what was right. I would've done the same for Bella. You would've done the same for Nessie."

"Depends," I let down my hands, "because you were a little less understanding when Victoria tried to play the avengement card. Who's to say this kid's any different?"

"She was a threat. You know that."

"And surfer boy's not?"

"No." He said unhesitatingly, as if it were the surest thing in the world.

I decided then that it was no use fighting him on this. I sat down on the hood.

"Alright, fine," I allowed. "Gimme the details."

Edward took a moment to float back down, clearing his head, and then he reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of copy paper that, from what could be said by the number of creases, looked as if it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times. And I would pay money that Edward was the only person to have seen it until now. This must have been a truth he wasn't willing to accept.

"Remember this?" He unfolded it for the umpteenth time and handed it to me.

I did a once over of the article. "Oh, yeah, the killings in Palo Alto. Carlisle brought this up ages ago, man. I thought we decided it was nothing but a serial killer. A strictly _human_ serial killer. It was out of our hands."

"Do you remember what made us say that?" He asked. And, then, answering his own question, "The pattern. All the victims were whole families, straight down to the most distant relative."

"Yeah, fourth cousins and estranged brothers seven times removed. I remember."

"Three separate families. The Lowells, the Pages, and…guess who."

I looked closer at the paper. "The Reeds."

"Of the three families, one escaped each mass homicide. The sons, all the same age, affiliated through Stanford, weren't there that night."

"They were classmates, out at a party," I remembered, but then I shook my head. "But, Edward, we've been through this. Each of them gave statements." I looked at the paper to confirm. "See, 'Thomas Lowell, Drew Page, and John Reed gave statements to authorities, saying they were completely unaware of what was to happen that night.' It was coincidence that they weren't there."

"And you expect me to believe that it is mere coincidence that one of them is now a vampire that has suddenly vanished out of thin air?" Edward took a step toward me, almost as if he were about to throw a punch, but he held back. He was in a dark place. Darker than I knew. "Jack Reed's family is wiped out, along with the families of his two best friends, and then he is punished for attempting to set things straight. This isn't a matter of simply settling the score, Jacob, not like it was with Victoria. This boy has had _everything_ taken from him: his family, his life, and, quite possibly, his afterlife. I'd go as far as to say that Drew and Thomas were part of it, maybe they're even facing the same fate."

I was silent for a moment, watching him. "So, this is what keeps you awake at night, Edward."

He sighed exasperatedly. "Those boys were turned, _before_ the murders."

"Are you saying those kids murdered their own families out of bloodlust?" I accused, shocked. "No way newborns could be that precise—they wouldn't have the patience to pay a visit to every single one of their relatives and kill them as cleanly as they had. No way in hell."

"I'm not saying that."

"Then what are you saying?"

"What if alliances were being formed?" He proposed. "What if whoever turned those three was trying to make clear who was in control? These boys' wouldn't leave their old lives behind, not with their families still alive."

"So, with their families dead, they'd have nothing to lose."

"Or everything to lose," he sighed. "At least that's what whoever turned them thought."

"Okay, I hear you," I said, "but, some of the dots still don't connect. Why would this Jack kid have run off? Wouldn't he want to stick with his frat buddies if they're all he had left? I mean, yeah, I would be angsty, too, if I was him, but I wouldn't go off somewhere if it meant that whoever forced these kids into this mess would set all hell loose." Edward looked sick for a moment. "The guy didn't cut 'em loose, did he? After going through all that effort and all, I mean, c'mon."

"Oh, he didn't cut them loose," Edward shook his head. "I'd imagine most people in that position of power wouldn't, at least not once they've reached the top by shoving everyone else to the bottom." He retrieved another folded paper from his pocket. "He got arrested."

I took the paper from him. "A _vampire_ got _arrested_? That's a joke, right?"

"I've never heard anything like it, either."

"Murder, robbery, rape, arson," I read the charges. "Well, this guy was no lightweight, that's for sure."

"And the authorities certainly didn't treat him like one."

"Geez," I kept reading in disbelief. "Solitary lockdown, quarantine, in an underground prison—ten-foot thick concrete walls, surrounded by a fifteen-foot thick titanium barrier, buried four-hundred yards down. Not to mention the 24/7 defense force waiting above ground for good measure. Kid didn't come in contact with _anybody_ for a solid two months."

He swallowed. "That's not even the scariest part."

"I know," I looked up at him nervously. "That's a lot of trouble to go through just for a regular old psychopath. So…they must've known." I couldn't even bring myself to say the words out loud. _They know about us_.

Edward nodded.

_All of us, you think?_

Edward shrugged. "Vampires, at the very least, obviously."

I exhaled, my breathing a little broken as if I'd just been beaten to a pulp. "Whoa, could you imagine if officials were wrong about this guy, if he wasn't actually a vampire? They would've starved a human down there, suffocated him. It would've been torture."

"Well, I don't think they were wrong." He sounded a little shaken himself.

"What makes you say that?" I wondered.

"He broke out."

I laughed, with _real_ humor and everything.

"Well," he added, "not alone."

My mouth dropped open. "Someone _helped_ this guy escape? What moronic bastard would…?"

Edward grew this solemn look on his face and took one trembling hand to rub his chin, as if sweat may have gathered there—but he was cold, frozen and unable to be budged from his opinion.

"How can you be defending this kid, Edward?" I shot. "This Jeremy Lane guy ruins Jacks life, kills his family, packs him up and moves him along, and, when the guy finally gets arrested, Jack _helps _him? I mean, c'mon, something of his has got to be off up there." I tapped my temple.

Edward turned away from me, looking at the window with a faraway look in his eyes that transcended our conversation. Almost as if he was fixated by something, not in the garage, not in the forest beyond, but, instead, something adrift miles out onto the ocean. His eyes narrowed, his brows knitting together—tell-tale signs of a thought that I dare not interrupt—but I couldn't bear idling in the dark, not when it meant there was a threat that he was keeping to himself.

"Edward," I sighed.

"They weren't there," he said, answering his own internal queries as if he were alone.

"Who wasn't where?"

"They were gone," he heaved a heavy breath, bringing his hand to his face guiltily, "and it was because of us."

I shook my head. "What are you talking about?"

He looked up, surprised to find me in the room, and escalated in volume. "The Volturi, Jacob! Don't you understand? He broke Jeremy out so that he could take him to the Volturi and they could kill him. But they weren't there. They are ash in the Pacific, Jacob, but no one broadcasted that—we haven't got a newsletter that alerts the rest of our kind to this sort of thing—and there isn't an inauguration or a coronation ceremony for a change in power for us. No one told him! So he went to his death…because of us!"

He longed for something to punch, something to exert his anger upon. I could tell just from the wild look on his face. But, somehow, his morality outweighed his anger and he considered it impolite to break anything in a place where he was a guest. I would not have minded; no one understood better than I. And it wasn't like there was anything I owned that wasn't trash already. He clenched his fists tight, ground his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut—trying to find some nonviolent way to release the pressure that had gathered inside him.

Fists still clenched, teeth still ground, eyes still squeezed, he muttered. "Jeremy would have gathered his strength to kill him by the time they arrived in Volterra."

I wondered if there was anything I could do to help the guy, but, honestly, what could I have possibly done in that moment? Edward felt responsible for this kid simply because he reminded him of himself. Jack wanted to right the wrongs, blinded so detrimentally by his own thoughts that the line between right and wrong was blurred beyond recognition. How was he to know? That was all Edward argued. How was a blind boy supposed to know?

"There's nothing we can do now, Edward."

He shook his head in disagreement, but had nothing to say.

"His friends are only coming for answers."

"They aren't his friends," he sighed. "Those aren't _friends_, Jacob."

I pushed off the Rabbit and let my arms fall. This is the point in Edward's argument where his own blindness interrupted his judgment—I'd known him long enough to be able to tell. This is what injured him so greatly, this truth that he had imagined to be true, and it also intensified his sympathies for the boy: he had come to make an assumption, whether or not rightfully true, that would solidify his position, turn him into the stubborn old man that he really was. And he would become so set in his ways that there was no arguing with him.

"Jake," he urged, with a voice so pleading I could've sworn that he had heard every thought that had just occurred to me then, "you, Alice, and I have to stand together on this. You can't tell anyone—not Sam, not the rest of the pack—and…I can't tell Bella. We cannot betray this boy, we cannot wrong him by telling everyone his mistakes."

"His friends, Edward," I asked of him as if tiredly arguing with a child. "What about his friends?"

"They must've known Jack was vengeful," he said forlornly. "I mean, they were his friends, after all. So, wouldn't friends have kept him from doing something stupid and tried to keep where Jeremy was held from him?"

I swallowed.

"No, these were not his friends. They knew he was vengeful and they told him where to find Jeremy—they sent him off on kamikaze mission. They had no way of knowing that the Volturi wouldn't be there, I'm sure, but why would they have sent Jack in the first place if not to get rid of him?" He suddenly became eager to reach the end of his argument, pressing his palms together as if in prayer and cupping them over his mouth. "But the mystery? Where's the mystery in it all? His friends wouldn't go through the trouble to come to us just to keep up the pretense of being worried about their friend—too much work. They want to know how the story ended, they want to know where their friend died and how and when. What's a story worth telling if you don't know the end…?"

I interrupted, "They wouldn't come all this way just to finish a story, Edward."

"Exactly. That's not all," He shook his head. "There's more—and this is tricky, this is what took me so long to figure out. If they are coming here to us, then, obviously, they are aware that the Volturi have been wiped out and that we have resumed power. You said that they seemed remorseful when you saw them, that they were grieving."

"Maybe they didn't want Jack to go out as bloodily as they assumed he had once they found out the Volturi are gone. They regret sending him off."

"Perhaps," his eyes lit up, "or, maybe, for the very same reason, it's not pity they feel, but _fear_. They're dim, they didn't think ahead. Jack is done for—I'm not sure of their motive—and that much is certain, but now Jeremy is free and will most likely return to find them. So, therefore, the only reason they would be coming to us is…"

"Security," I finished.

He looked at me for a long moment. "Huh, you caught on very quickly."

"You did all the thinking for me, Edward," I reminded him.

"So, we cannot betray Jack's alibi," he finished, "we cannot let him die in vain. And this coven that comes for us is the least of our problems. In fact, they're the _cause _of all our problems—a nuisance."

"Because if they come here, then Jeremy will come straight to us."

"And the last thing we need is another psychotic murderer on our hands."


End file.
